


Dance Like Nobody's Watching

by xxMOONLITsky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:03:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxMOONLITsky/pseuds/xxMOONLITsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If word of this ever reached the Yard, Greg Lestrade would be looking for a new job...once he had finished spontaneously combusting from embarrassment, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance Like Nobody's Watching

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are from Katy Perry's "Peacock." Mycroft and Lestrade (and all other associated characters) belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC; original credit for the creation of the characters goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Gregory Lestrade was having the absolute time of his life.  Not that he’d ever tell anyone, of course; if word got out that he was – !  To be honest, he’d rather be the one-man police force of Whothefuckcares, England than deal with the inevitable mocking.  (Sadly, punching one’s underlings in an effort to shut them up was frowned upon by the superiors of Scotland Yard.  As Sherlock would say – and he couldn’t believe he was mentally quoting Sherlock Holmes –  _boring_.)  But who the hell cared?  He was alone in his flat, having a ball, and nobody was gonna stop him.  (Or so he thought.) 

 _Word on the street you got something to show me  
Magical, colorful, Mister Mystery_ 

The teasing voice blared out of the stereo speakers as Lestrade danced his way around the kitchen, putting dishes back in their respective homes.  So he had a vice.  Everybody does, and those that say they don’t are clearly lying.  Greg’s was pop music.  There was something about it that just grabbed him and wouldn’t let go until he was dancing like the Earth’s very rotation depended upon it.  So few things made him absolutely happy nowadays – London’s crime rate had skyrocketed, Sherlock had been even more annoying than usual (if that was even possible) and the time not spend at work (which was the majority of most days) was spent crashing in bed.  But this weekend was different, Greg had told himself as he caught a taxi home from the Yard earlier that evening.  This weekend was _his_  weekend.  He was gonna clean up his flat, do some laundry, and  _relax_.  Hell, maybe he’d even go wild and cook himself a proper meal.  That was the plan, he was sticking to it, and that was precisely how he came to be dancing ‘round his flat in jeans and a Pink Floyd tee, singing along to Katy Perry as he cleaned. 

 _I want the jaw dropping, eye-popping, head turning, body shocking_  

Greg couldn’t help but grin at the approaching chorus as he stacked the last of the plates in the cabinet by the sink.  I mean,  _come on_.  It was obvious – hell, it was probably obvious even to  _Sherlock_  – that she wasn’t actually talking about birds.  Trying not to grin was a failed effort, so why bother? 

The metal of the serving utensils being pulled from the dishwasher and deposited none-too-gently into their drawer added to the wall of sound which seemed to envelope the flat; surprisingly enough, it didn’t detract from the song’s appeal.  One fact about Gregory Lestrade you probably didn’t know?  He was not above picking up the nearest object even  _slightly_  resembling a microphone and singing into it.  (In the current case, it was a whisk.) 

 _Are you brave enough to let me see your peacock?  
Don't be a chicken, boy, stop acting like a bee-otch  
I'mma peace out if you don't give me the payoff  
Come on, baby, let me see what you're hiding underneath _

 _I wanna see your peacock, cock, cock, cock, your peacock, co-_  

Greg broke off suddenly, horrified, as a blush spread its way across his face.  His dancing and singing – whisk still in his right hand, hair sticking up slightly from his enthusiasm – had spun him around to face the direction of the door, lounging in which was none other than Mycroft.  Mycroft Holmes,  _the_  British Government, who seemed utterly amused (by the twinkling of his eyes and the grin that was threatening to break across his face) by Greg’s antics.  Katy continued singing about things that good girls certainly should  _not_  sing about as Greg stood frozen, face so hot that he hoped he’d just burst into flames already and save himself the resulting embarrassment.  When he  _didn’t_  spontaneously combust (much to his displeasure), he blinked a couple of times, seemingly at a loss for words, before turning an even deeper shade of crimson. 

“I can explain.” 

Mycroft’s face twitched, eyes still twinkling brightly, before he cracked; full out shoulder-shaking laughter echoed around the flat’s small kitchen.  When he collected himself twenty seconds later (it  _was_  rather undignified to be laughing in such a manner at one’s lover), his own failure to hide a grin was met by a frown from Lestrade. 

“Seriously, My?  You’re  _laughing_  at me.” 

The scowl became more pronounced as Greg crossed his arms, full-out pouting now, before turning towards the sink to pick up a rag and begin wiping down the countertops.  He jumped slightly as Mycroft wrapped him in a hug from behind – he hadn’t even heard the man cross the room; were all Holmes men ninjas? – stilling the Detective Inspector’s movements.  Pressing a kiss to Greg’s neck, Mycroft spoke softly. 

“I wasn’t laughing  _at_  you, Gregory, I was – ”

“I certainly wasn’t laughing,” Greg cut in, angry that his traitorous body decided the situation was suddenly funny and was trying to make him grin.  He was embarrassed, damnit!  He wanted to be angry!

“Okay, I  _may_  have been laughing at you, but not because I wished to poke fun.  You dancing around the kitchen – it’s endearing.  And come now, you must admit it’s funny.  You were singing into a  _whisk_.” 

Greg snorted, giving up as he turned in Mycroft’s arms to face his husband, grinning widely.  His face was still tinged slightly pink – it was embarrassing being caught singing into kitchen utensils no matter  _what_  the circumstances – but his anger had dissolved.  Ms. Perry chose that moment to add her two cents’ of wisdom to the situation. 

 _You’ve got the finest architecture  
End of the rainbow looking treasure  
Such a sight to see...and it's all for me_ 

Mycroft grinned playfully, eyes dancing as he turned to glance at the stereo. 

“I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong.” 

Greg raised his eyebrows in a silent question. 

“It’s all for  _me_ , Gregory,” Mycroft replied, grinning in that way that never failed to send a rush of heat down Lestrade’s spine. 

Greg laughed, eyes twinkling as the sound echoed around the room.  Smirking, he replied, his tone challenging. 

“Yours, huh?  I don’t see your name written anywhere.” 

Mycroft matched Greg’s smirk as he pushed the other man back slightly, trapping him between his body and the counter. 

“But it  _is_.  It’s written here – ” Mycroft lay a hand over Greg’s heart – “and here – ” the hand moved to grab Greg’s left hand, fingers resting over the silver wedding band (the mate of which rested on Mycroft’s own left hand) – “but most importantly – ” Mycroft leaned around Greg to grab something off the counter before bringing it to rest lightly on his groin – “ _here_.” 

Greg jumped at the touch, glancing between their bodies.  Stuck to the crotch of his trousers was a sticky note that read “PROPERTY OF MYCROFT HOLMES” in neat capitals.  Greg grinned, eyes dancing mischievously as he wiggled his way free, heading in the general direction of the hallway and stairs.  Tossing the whisk on the table and not caring as he heard it roll and hit the floor, he turned back to face his husband. 

“Prove it.” 

Mycroft’s laughter rang throughout the kitchen as he hung his suit jacket over a chair before following in Gregory’s footsteps, taking the stairs two at a time. 


End file.
